


Unavoidably Detained by the World

by Who_Needs_Reality



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/F, F/M, Multi, Stardust AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-08-09 12:37:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7802125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Who_Needs_Reality/pseuds/Who_Needs_Reality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody ever crosses the wall. That is until the wholly unextraordinary Bellamy Blake sets off to prove himself to his sister and bring her back a fallen star. What— or rather, who— he finds when he gets there is not at all what he expected, and his journey suddenly becomes a lot more complicated and fantastical than originally planned. </p><p>Or, <b>Bellarke <i>Stardust<i> AU<b>, because this quote is in the book and is Bellarke af: “<i>He wondered how it could have taken him so long to realize he cared for her, and he told her so, and she called him an idiot, and he declared that it was the finest thing that ever a man had been called.<i>”</i></i></b></i></i></b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which we meet Bellamy Blake, his sister, and some unusual folk over a wall

**Author's Note:**

> In case you weren't aware, Neil Gaiman's "Stardust" is one of my favourite books of all time, and the 2007 film adaptation is one of my favourite movies of all time, and I highly recommend you check both of them out. Anyway, Stardust is Bellarke af for many reasons, not least because the book contains [this](http://paperbackpalaces.tumblr.com/post/149109656201/he-wondered-how-it-could-have-taken-him-so-long-to) quote, and if that ain't Bellarke... Anyway, I am super excited to write this, and will try and update as frequently as possible, though I am swamped with school so I make no promises. Also, I highly suggest you listen to the Stardust [film score](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aN48as4I6Qc&list=PL097A5473BE301041) while you read-- it is also, no surprises, one of my favourite soundtracks ever.

**_In the village of Wall, Arkshire County, England_ **

Bellamy Blake, it must be said, was not a particularly extraordinary boy. The most fabulous elements of his life lay safely within his books, which he read with the same fervor that his sister raced her horse. 

His sister was the other most fabulous thing in his life. She had their mother’s lively eyes and long nose, and her father’s sharp chin and angled cheeks. Bellamy, who took on after his own father, looked very little like her, but their spirit and their love for each other was the same, and Bellamy would have laid his life down for her in an instant.  Of course, one didn’t exactly get many opportunities to lay one’s life down in the sleepy village of Wall, but he would have nonetheless. Bellamy, who had raised his sister from the time he was twelve, was prepared to do just about anything for her. Except, that is, _this_.

“You’re being entirely unreasonable!” she exploded, flinging a wooden spoon at him. He ducked and it bounced off a rafter.

 “I’m not the one who wants to marry a complete stranger within three days of meeting him!”

 “If I’ve already met him then he’s not a stranger, is he?” she countered.

 Bellamy groaned. “O, just think about it! You met him at the _market_!”

 She stuck her chin out. “So? You love the market!”

 “And I love the pub, but I’ve never tried to marry Dax!”

 “That barkeeper’s a monster, Bell, Lincoln isn’t! Besides, I don’t need your permission.” 

 Bellamy crossed his arms, matching Octavia’s pout with his own. “I don’t get why you’re so keen on this guy. There are so many other perfectly adequate alternatives in the village!”

 Octavia fixed him with a steely glare. “I don’t want someone adequate, Bell, I want an adventure! I want someone I love!”

 “How can you know you love him after three days, O?” Bellamy asked her, more softly. 

To his surprise, his sister actually blushed. “Everything just feels different when I’m with him. Better. Exciting.”

 Bellamy raked a hand through his curls. “I have to go now,” he said, “we’ll talk about it later.”

Octavia set her jaw, but nodded, and he felt a pang of fondness through his irritation. She was a stubborn one, his fierce little sister. Too stubborn— _marriage_ , at this age? And to a veritable stranger!

But he gave up his sulking because now there was work to do— like all the young men of the village, Bellamy had an assigned shift with which to guard the wall. The wall— a long, high, serpentining granite structure from which the village got its name— snaked all around the south of Arkshire county, showing no signs of ending either direction. It broke only in a single place, a gap about six feet wide at the bottom of a paddock at the edge of the village. Nobody knew when the wall had been built, but they knew it was keeping _something_ out. To that end, they had, since long before Bellamy was born— and would until long after— stationed guards at the gap all day every day, ensuring nobody got through. That was, except, for nine days every nine years, when the Faerie Market came. When the Market came, so would a stream of visitors from the strangest corners of the world, bringing all manner of trinkets and trade. The last market had been when Bellamy was fourteen, and his mother had let him go, while she stayed home with a young Octavia. He had saved up all year and came back with an enchanted book— no larger than a postage stamp, whose pages told a different story every night— for himself and a glass cat that came alive when hit by moonlight and rolled around in the palm of your hand for Octavia. O had been furious at not being allowed to go, but the cat mollified her somewhat. 

 

There was a steady stream of people queueing at the gap when Bellamy arrived. He nodded at Sterling and Mbege, the two boys whose shift he and Miller were taking over, and greeted Miller.

“It’s going to be a long day,” Miller remarked drily. 

Bellamy nodded. “You planning to go in this evening?”

Miller glanced through the wall. Sometimes the guards visited the market after sunset. “Maybe.” He grinned. “Is Octavia still hung up on tall dark and handsome?” 

Bellamy scowled. Octavia had been so excited for her first market, and it would never have occurred to him to stop her. He had expected her to come back with something— a Faerie bauble of some kind, a magic ring, perhaps, or a flower that bloomed from bud to blossom in a day. Octavia being Octavia had returned with a fiancé. A fiancé older than Bellamy, and from somewhere he’d never even heard of.

“Oh cheer up,” said Miller, jostling his shoulder as he noticed Bellamy’s grimly-set mouth, “at least he’s not from _there_.” 

He jerked his head over the wall, and Bellamy’s stomach turns at the thought of Octavia marrying someone from Faerie. Even his sister would have hesitated to wed someone from the land over the wall. They were a queer people, those Faerie folk. Nobody knew very much about them, save from what they saw at the market. They were, Bellamy thought, rather like fireworks— immense and exciting and iridescent in those small bursts, but not to be touched, not to be handled. They were dangerous— the wall had something to do with Faerie, that was obvious.

Bellamy didn’t say anything, and turned his attention the the task at hand, which was just monitoring the visitors as they went through the wall. Normally, he’d keep people out altogether, but for the Market Days, his job was to keep an eye on the visitors, help out anyone coming back over who looked a little Faerie-struck. Make sure everyone coming back through belonged here. 

 Octavia came down on her horse as the sky turned purple, with a shepherd’s pie and a tankard of ale each for Miller and Bellamy.

 “Thanks, O,” he grinned as his sister ruffled his hair from horseback.

 “Anytime big brother.” She paused a moment. “I’m going to the pub with Lincoln for the evening. Don’t wait up.”

 Bellamy scowled. “Octavia—” he began but she cantered off, laughing and waving.

There were only a few minutes before the next pair of young men would  come relieve them, and Bellamy was all set to march down to the pub and— challenge Lincoln to a duel? grab O and ride off? drink himself stupid as he glowered at the couple?— do something, but Miller clapped a hand to his shoulder, warning. “Bellamy,” he said, his voice colored with amusement, “lay off. Come on, let’s go to the market.”

 Bellamy sighed as the next guards arrived, but followed Miller begrudgingly through the gap. There was nothing apparently extraordinary immediately through the wall— a field overgrown with soft grass and heather, the forest to the right— but as they reached the crest of the hill, they could see the market aglow in the shallow valley. The hum of voices and music and the twinkle of orangey lights emanated upwards.

 “What’s it to be Blake?” asked Miller, grinning wolfishly as they reached the entrance of the market, “wander round together like schoolgirls, or split and meet up later?”

 

Bellamy rolled his eyes, punching Miller’s arm in lieu of an answer. In truth, he didn’t mind too much. Octavia had been right— he _did_ love the market, the perfume of foreign spices and the murmur of a thousand conversations in a thousand different tongues. He wandered through the stalls, listening as the vendors pedaled their goods.

“Spells, cantrips, charms— magical solutions for your every need!”

“Magic wands of exceptional power! Rings to make you disappear!” 

“Ocean in a bottle! Get your ocean in a bottle here!”

Bellamy was just wondering what need anyone could possibly have for an ocean in a bottle when a low table covered in a velvet cloth caught his eye. Nestled into the fabric lay a series of small animals and creatures, and when he leaned closer to them, he realised, with a start, they were not real, rather fashioned from glass. 

“Something catch your eye, boy?”

Bellamy glanced upwards and saw the vendor watching him. “I was looking for a trinket. For my sister.”

“Hmm.” The vendor tapped her chin. Her fingers were slender, and a stray strand of brown hair bounced in her face. He noticed a silver chain hung loosely around her wrist, that seemed to trail all the way back to the yellow caravan behind her. She was, it seemed, a slave. 

“What do they cost?” he asked.

 “That’s not how we do business here, Bellamy Blake.”

 He was both startled and unsurprised that she knew his name— the Faerie folk had their ways, and he could tell she was Faerie, given that here ears were those of a cat— but swallowed a response. “What do you mean?”

 “We don’t want to hamper your decisions with matters such as _cost._ ”

 Bellamy raised his eyes, but the vendor remained impenetrable. Sighing, he cast his eyes back to the table, before his gaze rested on a tiny butterfly, no bigger than his thumbnail, made from dark blue crystal. “That one,” he said, “I’ll take that one.”

 The shopkeeper inhaled sharply. “That one? Why that one?”

 Bellamy shrugged, but found he could not remove his gaze from the butterfly. “I just…want it.”

 He stared at her, and then to his surprise, she yanked him forward by the collar of his shirt and— _kissed_ him, plum on the mouth.

 “Mmph!” He made a muffled noise of surprised protest. “What was that?”

 “Payment,” she said curtly, “for the butterfly.” She dropped it in the palm of his hand. She sighed, seeing his still-alarmed expression. “Oh don’t look so distressed. I was only reading you.”

 “ _Reading_ me?”

 “Run along now,” she said, “and Bellamy Blake? You’d do well to watch yourself.”

 

He was unsettled as he turned away, but turned his attention to wrapping the butterfly in his handkerchief and tucking it into his pocket. He smirked to himself as he passed Miller, who was engrossed in conversation with a Faerie boy. So much for not falling for _them_.

Still, the butterfly felt like it burned in his pocket, and he still felt the weight of the vendor’s scrutiny like a cloth draped about his shoulders. He couldn’t shake off the feeling, and was relieved to clamber back over the wall.

 “You alright boy?”

 He glanced up and saw Shumway, the shopkeeper. “Yes sir.”

 Shumway snorted. “You look Faerie-touched.”

 Bellamy swallowed but kept walking, and did not stop until he reached the cottage. He stiffened, seeing Octavia leaning against the doorway, and a tall figure— presumably Lincoln— looming over her. He hesitated a moment, unsure whether to wait or march up, and more from discomfort than anything else, he made his way to the door.

 “I’m back!” he announced in an unnecessarily loud voice.

 Octavia rolled her eyes, and Lincoln stepped back, nodding politely.

 “Goodnight,” said the other man. Octavia yanked him down for another kiss then let him go. Bellamy coughed.

 “Really?” he said when Lincoln was out of earshot, “our house? I live here!”

 “Well I wanted to take him to an open field but—”

 “Don’t finish that sentence,” he begged, before clearing his throat. “I got you something.” He pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.

 She unwrapped it eagerly and gave a small gasp on seeing the butterfly. “Oh,” she said, “it’s beautiful.”

 He smiled, soft and infinitely affectionate. She looked so young in that moment. Happy, ecstatic even, as she turned the little butterfly in her hands. And then, because he was Bellamy and had to ruin it, he said. “O— I don’t want you marrying Lincoln. Or anyone.”

 She narrowed her eyes at him, ready to fire back. Bellamy sighed. It was going to be a _long_ night.

 

**_In the land of Faerie_ **

 Faerie was an immense land, far bigger than our own world, bigger, perhaps, than any world. Nobody had ever seen the whole of it. However, the most enticing events of the night— and Bellamy had been right, it _would_ be a long one— passed not in the village of Wall, not in the entirety of Faerie, but in one of Faerie’s many kingdoms. To be precise, the kingdom of Stormhold, where, as Bellamy argued with his sister over her nuptial future, King Dante lay dying in the royal bedchamber.

 Dante lay back, weak, perhaps, but as much steel in his eyes as ever there had been.

 “Roan,” he said, his breath rattling in his lungs, “where is your brother?”

 “He’ll be on his way, father.”

 Dante grunted, somewhat disappointed. By the time he was Roan’s age, he had already killed his fourteen brothers and secured his place as heir to the throne of Stormhold. None of his children had been so efficient, and now, when Stormhold needed a king, at least two of his incompetent children were still alive.

 “I’m here, father!” proclaimed the King’s youngest son, Cage, sweeping into the room. Roan’s hand shifted casually, imperceptibly, to his sword, but he did not move.

 King Dante surveyed his sons critically. “So,” he said, “the final batch. The future king of Stormhold, and his dead brother. Which will be which?” He laughed wheezingly to himself.

 “Now’s not the time for games, Father,” insisted Roan, “your life and the future of Stormhold hangs in the balance.”

 Dante glowered at his eldest. “You might have thought of that before failing to eliminate your rivals,” he said.

 Neither Roan nor Cage seemed particularly concerned with their Father’s eagerness for them to kill one another. 

 “I killed Nimuel,” Cage remarked, off-hand as he spoke of their eldest sibling. 

 “Hmm,” Dante grunted, “you’re a fool of you considered him your greatest obstacle. Nimuel would never have been king,” his face goes as near to fond as ever its been, “he hadn’t the will.”

 Cage remained impassive.

“Well,” Roan prompted, “are you going to name your heir?”

“Your sister,” Dante said suddenly, “where is she?” He narrowed his eyes at Cage. “You know—”

 “Yes, Father, I know only a male may inherit the throne of Stormhold, so why would I bother killing her? Anya’s been missing for more than a decade, you know that.”

 Dante seemed to have phased out. “Two left,” he said, “and one throne.”

 “We know, Father,” Cage snapped, a rush of air hissing through his teeth in irritation. “I’ll kill him here and now if you like,” and he lunged at his brother with a knife, who swung his sword with equal speed.

“Oh stop,” snapped Dante, irritated, “I don’t expect the pair of you to have magically grown more competent now.” He regarded them another moment, before reaching slowly, painfully, upwards and removing the heavy ruby that hung around his neck.

Both young men drew a sharp intake of breath— that was the Stone of Stormhold, the most powerful symbol of the Kingdom’s monarch after the crown. Dante held it aloft ahead of him, regal, an image of the great King he had once been, and as his sons watched, the red seeped from the stone, leaving it completely clear.

 “Only Stormhold’s royal bloodline will restore the stone,” he said, an age-old twinkle glimmering in his eye, “the first heir of mine to do so shall become King of Stormhold— it is my final decree.”

Both his sons lunged for the stone, but with a final, impossible burst of strength— and of magic— Dante flung the stone, flung it far out of the window of the tower, and Roan and Cage watched, helpless, as the stone flew up, up, up, into the sky. There was a moment of silence, and then the sky erupted a moment in a blinding flash of light. 

 When the brightness subsided slightly, they could see a comet, no, a star streaking through the sky, faster and faster on its journey to the earth.

“Brother,” Roan said in a low voice, and Cage turned to glance at the bed. A silence hung there. A star was falling from the sky, and Stormhold’s king was dead. The brothers held each other’s gaze. The race had begun.

 

 ** _In the village of Wall_**  

“You’re impossible, Bellamy!” Octavia yelled, flinging her arms up in exasperation.

“Why can’t you see that I’m just looking out for you?”

 “If that were the case, you’d give me your blessing to marry Lincoln!”

 He folded his arms. “You’re seventeen, O. I know Lincoln seems like the be-all and end-all of your life right now, but he’s not your gateway to the world! There’s so much left for you to do, to see, you’ve got time to grow up—”

“And what, be like you?” The venom in her tone made Bellamy recoil. “Look at you, Bellamy, you’ve never done anything worthwhile in your life! You’re twenty-three and you’ve never even left the village, you’ve only ever lived through your books and your griping. You spend your days _stopping_ people from traveling across the wall, for God’s sake, and you’d never have the guts to cross yourself except on Market Days!”

Bellamy swallowed. “So, what? You’ll marry a random man just to prove you’re better than I am?”

Octavia scowled. “I’m marrying Lincoln because I love him!” And then, because it was Octavia, because it was his wild, wonderful little sister who always had to go a step further than needed, she said “and maybe I love him because I know he’s nothing like you.”

Bellamy’s eyes widened, and Octavia suddenly looked horrified, as though she’d inadvertently stabbed him. “Bell…”

He shook his head and wiped a hand over his face. If his little sister needed to hate him in order for him to protect her, so be it. 

“Bellamy, just…”

Octavia was saved from saying anything because at that moment, a burst of white light shot through the cottage windows. Both siblings rushed outside to see, and what they saw was stunning— a shooting star, arcing across the night sky, over the wall.

Octavia looked at it, openmouthed with the expression of childlike wonder Bellamy knew so well he ached. “When I’m with Lincoln,” she said softly, “I feel as though I could chase it. The star. Like I could go over the wall and find it, and he would help me. He’s my adventure.”

Bellamy would later blame stress and emotion and sheer desperation on the words that next escaped his mouth. “I’ll get it.”

“What?" 

“The star. I’ll go find the star and bring it back for you.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Listen, O, I know you think you’ll never get any… any _adventure_ from Wall, or… or from me. But I can prove you wrong.” He glanced in the direction of the star. “I can bring adventures too, O. Trust me.”

“You…you’d cross the wall? On a _quest_? To keep me from marrying Lincoln?” Her expression was incredulous. She crossed her arms, and steel flashed across her eyes. “Fine. _Fine_. If you’re so sure you can find adventure and steer me away from the man I love, so be it.”

Bellamy looked at her. “If I bring you back the star, you won’t marry Lincoln.”

Octavia swallowed but nodded. “Cross the wall, big brother. Find the star and bring it back. Show me even a great oaf like you—” they both smiled in spite of themselves— “can have an adventure. And… and I won’t marry Lincoln. I’ll stay with you.”

Bellamy stared at her. “Okay. Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll bring you back the star.”


	2. In Which We Encounter a Very Particular Star, And the People Who Seek it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So…so…you’re the star? You? You’re a star?”
> 
> She flicked at a pebble with her fingernail. “Yes, we’ve established that! Heaven’s you’re slow.”
> 
> It was Bellamy’s turn to scowl. “Well, princess, excuse me for expecting to find a celestial lump of rock, like science told me I would.” He was pleased with himself— the nickname suited her.
> 
>  The star didn’t reply, merely folded her arms and looked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here's chapter 2! Thank you to everyone who read chapter 1, I hope you enjoy this one as well!

**_The Witches’ Keep, Stormhold_ **

The witch eyed the falling star with a impassiveness that did not betray an ounce of what thoughts flurried through her head. Even the light of the cosmic entity’s flaming tail was dim in the depths of the valley where the Keep lay hidden, but it was there.

“Is it true, Alie?” said her sister, hurrying out so the silk of her skirts rustled around her, “has a star truly fallen?”

Alie nodded once. “For the first time in centuries.”

Her sister smiled, a small, impenetrable smile.

“Our newest era has begun, Echo,” said Alie, thrills of pleasure prickling her skin as she said the words. “Fetch the entrails, so that we may begin.”

The sisters returned to their— it had once been a palace, but no more— hovel.

“A star?” asked Ontari, the third sister.

Echo nodded, and hurried to a cage from where she produced a ferret. She wrung its neck, then laid it on the table where her sisters crowded round it. Ontario withdrew an obsidian blade from her belt and sliced down the creature’s stomach, allowing its innards to spill forth like clusters of glistening stones. 

“Eyes closed,” said Alie, and the three sisters closed their eyes, rifling through the entrails as Alie counted to five. “Open,” she said.

“Kidney,” said Ontari, unfurling her hand and revealing the organ.

“Liver,” said Echo, her lip curling in displeasure.

Alie smiled more widely than she had in a hundred years. “I have the heart.”

Her sisters glared at her, both thinking the same thing— _she looked!_ — but neither daring to say so.

“Well,” said Alie, “you know what is to be done.”

 

Ontari, old and withered as her sisters, bent forward and pulled a box from below the table. Each witch sister laid a finger on it and murmured words in a language more ancient than one could imagine. The box opened, revealing a small glimmering piece of golden flesh— heart. Echo and Ontari watched enviously as Alie plucked it between shriveled fingers and placed it in her mouth, chewing slowly. As she chewed, the magic took hold of her. Her sagging translucent grew taut and firm, her grey brush of hair turn silken and black, her breasts pulled up higher, her waist slimmed. She smiled, satisfied, in the mirror at the beautiful young lady who now stood there.

Both Echo and Ontari, still bent over and fragile with age, licked their lips, coveting Alie’s newfound beauty. “Here,” Ontari said, handing Alie a set of obsidian knives and cleavers sharpened to a razor-fine edge, “you’ll need these.”

“And these,” Echo said, handing her eldest sister a pouch of runestones, “use them to locate the star.”

Alie took both, and tucked them into a velvet pouch that she fastened round her dress like a sash. “Fear not, my sisters,” she said, “I shall not fail you.”

 

**_The village of Wall_ **  

Bellamy stared at the chest. “Are you sure, O?”

Octavia nodded, arms crossed, looking firm. “You should. You might need it.” 

The chest had been left for Bellamy and Octavia by their mother Aurora when she died, with instructions to open it “when they were ready.” Neither one had known quite when to open it, and Bellamy always assumed he’d leave it for his sister.

“I want you to have it,” she insisted, “in case—” She cut herself off, but the implication was clear. In case whatever lay over the wall was so terrible that he never came back. 

He nodded, and released the catch. The chest sprung open. Its contents were all wrapped in a white muslin sheet which he undid slowly. At the very top lay two envelopes, one marked _Bellamy_ , the other, _Octavia_ in their mother’s looping script. He handed O’s letter to her, and tucked his carefully into his pocket. There was a small pile of gold coins (“Keep them,” he insisted to Octavia, “at least until I get back. They’ll not be worth anything in Faerie.”), an old brooch of Aurora’s, which Bellamy also gave to Octavia, and an old pocket watch that Bellamy didn’t recognize. 

“Take it,” Octavia urged him, so he did. The last thing was curious— it was a candle, short and thick, made from black wax with what appeared to be sparkling bits of mica embedded in it. The wax also had indecipherable patterns carved into it.

“A candle?” asked Octavia, incredulous, “mother left us a candle?”

Bellamy shrugged, but opened his letter.

 

_My dear boy,_ it read, and suddenly Bellamy felt his throat constrict,

_I’m so sorry I had to leave you when you were so young. Believe me, I didn’t want to, but sometimes, the powers that be decide your time is up, and so it goes. I know you’ll have looked after Octavia for me— it’s like I told you: your sister, your responsibility. I wish I could know the man you’ve become, but I know that I’m proud of him, whoever he is. If you’re reading this now, Bellamy, it means you’re ready for the gifts I’ve laid aside for you. The pocket watch was your father’s. I know you never knew him, but he was a good man, my son, and he loved you until his dying breath. Keep it, and think of him when you need him most. The candle, which I’m sure you’re wondering about, was a gift from him to you. It is called a Babylon Candle, and it will light the way on your journey._  

_I wish so much I could be with you and see you off on all your endeavours, but I hope these gifts do you service. I love you, my son, and may you find so much more love in the world even now I’m gone,_

_Forever yours,_

_Mother_

 

Bellamy was stoically _not_ crying by the letters end. He was surprised to see Octavia, who had finished her letter, had tears welling in her eyes. The siblings sat there for a moment, choked with emotion. Octavia swallowed. “Did she give you any hints about the gifts?”

“She says the candle will, uh, _light me on my journey,_ or som— Oh my god!” he cried, making Octavia jump, “It’s a transportation device!”

Octavia blinked at him. “I think the dust from the chest has lodged in your head, Bell. 

Bellamy tutted, ignoring her as he scrambled to pull out one of his books— on local Folklore— and opened to a page upon which was illustrated a strange circular symbol composed of spirals and crosses. “ _Centuries ago, magicians would use such sigils to denote locations or objects endowed with unusual ability to transcend ordinary barriers of distance and space_ ,” Bellamy read, “ _many believe the knowledge of such an ability spilled over into Wall from the land of Faerie_.” 

Octavia frowned. “So?”

Bellamy picked up the candle and turned it, showing her. She drew a sharp intake of breath— the same symbol was hewn onto the wax. 

“What do you do with it?” she asked. 

Bellamy grinned slightly. “There’s only one thing I can think of doing with a candle, Octavia.”

Her eyes alighted in understanding, and she hurried to hand him the pack— filled with food, clothes, water, and a book— that he had prepared. Bellamy took it, and fastened his father’s pocket watch on carefully. Then he turned to his sister. 

“There’s an entire loaf in the pantry,” he said, “and a bushel of apples. They’ll keep for a while. And Ms. Gardiner said she’d give you a discount at the shop if you need more groceries. Don’t ride the horse when it rains. Or after dark. Lock the doors at night. Remember— oof!” He staggered back as Octavia cut him off when she flew at him with an embrace. 

“Be safe, big brother,” she said, muffled into his shoulder, her voice thick. Bellamy squeezed her, hard, and found it hard to swallow. “Here,” he found her stuffing something into his hand— the little butterfly— “borrow it. For luck.”

“Take care of yourself, O,” he said, kissing her forehead, “since I won’t be there for a while.”

When at last they pulled apart, Bellamy fished out a matchstick, held the candle in his fist, struck the match, and lit the wick, hoping very dearly it would lead him to the star.

A moment past, and then there was a sudden puff of purple smoke, and Octavia found herself blinking in an empty kitchen, her brother gone, off on his quest to bring her a star. She refused to shed a tear, but she swallowed awfully hard not to do so.

 

**_Somewhere over the wall_ **

Bellamy was conscious of several things at once— one, that he was no longer in his house, two, that he was outside and it was cold, three, that this meant the candle had worked, four, that he had landed on the ground, and five, that he had, more specifically, landed on a person. 

“Ouch!” cried the tangle of limbs and beneath him, “get off me, you oaf!”

He scrambled aside and found himself looking at a young woman, who looked a couple of years older than Octavia, with a silvery silk dress and disheveled golden hair. “Sorry,” he said, getting to his feet, “I didn’t mean to land on you.”

“Well,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “that makes it far less painful!”

“It should be here,” he said, more to himself than anyone else, “I thought of it when I lit the candle…perhaps if I look around a little…” 

He walked around, shaking out his sore muscles, and gasped when he realised something. He was standing in a crater, fringed with grass that looked blackened and burned. If a star had hit the Earth, he’d wager it would leave something like this.

“Excuse me,” he said, turning back to the woman, eyes wide, “you wouldn’t happen to have seen a star around here would you? See I’m looking for one, and it must have landed round here somewhere—” He tailed off when he saw the ferocity with which she was glowering at him, though it was hard to take her seriously when there were twigs springing out of her hair.

“Funny,” she spat, “you’re really hilarious.”

“What?”

“You want a star, do you?” 

Bellamy frowned. “Yes…”  


“Well, let me make it easy for you. Over _there_ ” she pointed a finger skywards “is where it was doing its job and living its life, when this stupid bloody necklace,” she fished a large stone on a gold chain from around her neck, “came soaring through the sky and knocked it to the ground, over _there_ ,” she pointed to somewhere a little behind where Bellamy was stood, “was where it landed and hurt her leg, and over _here_ ,” she pointed to herself, “is where _it_ landed when it was knocked off _it’s_ feet by a magical flying _moron_!”

Bellamy blinked at her. He waited a moment. “It doesn’t seem like _I’m_ the one that’s been flying,” he said mildly.

She scowled at him. “Like I said, hilarious.”

“So…so… _you’re_ the star? You? You’re a star?”

She flicked at a pebble with her fingernail. “Yes, we’ve established that! Heaven’s you’re slow.” 

It was Bellamy’s turn to scowl. “Well, _princess_ , excuse me for expecting to find a celestial lump of rock, like science told me I would.” He was pleased with himself— the nickname suited her.

The star didn’t reply, merely folded her arms and looked away. 

“Look,” Bellamy ventured, “I know this isn’t convenient for either of us—”

“Isn’t _convenient_?”

“But I need you to come with me. To my sister.”

The look the star gave Bellamy could have felled a weaker man. “You want to bequeath upon your sister the gift of an injured woman? Tasteless _and_ stupid, it would seem. Leave me alone, for heaven’s sake.”  

Bellamy huffed. “I promised her I’d cross the wall and bring her back a star, and I was expecting something that looked more like a silver pebble, but I can’t back out now, so I would really appreciate it if you—” 

“Oh, please! Give me _one_ good reason I should go anywhere with you!”

Bellamy crouched to her level, eyeing her critically. “You’re hurt,” he said, gesturing at her leg, “you won’t be going anywhere by yourself any day soon, so you need my help, like it or not princess.”

The star looked outraged, but still made no sign of assent. “Stop calling me that! And besides, I’m not going to be your pet!”

Bellamy looked appalled. “What? No, no I don’t want to keep you! I’d just like you to come with me to prove myself to my sister and stop her from making a terrible mistake. I’ll let you go home as soon as it’s done!”

She shot him another withering look. They were, he noticed, a specialty of hers. “Let me go home? It may have escaped your notice, genius, but my home is up _there_!” She pointed up. “How exactly do you propose I get there?”

Bellamy smiled then, broad and bright. “I was going to give you this.”

When she saw what he held in his hand, she sat up sharply, ignoring the pain in her leg. “Is that—-what—-how did you— _you have a Babylon Candle_!” It came out as an accusation, and Bellamy quirked an eyebrow.

“Yes, princess, I have a Babylon Candle. I was going to give it to you if you came with me, to get back home.”

She stared hard at it. “That stub _barely_ has one use left in it.”

Bellamy shrugged. “So we make our way back to my sister together, and I let you use it to go back to the sky. Otherwise, I’ll leave you alone as you asked and use it to go home myself.”

“I despise you,” she said, venomous.

He snorted. “Is that a yes, princess?”

In lieu of an answer, she held her arms up, grudgingly, for him to help her to her feet, wincing as he did. “Fine,” she spat, “I’ll go with you. But _stop_ calling me princess!”

“It suits you,” he said, smirking, “and besides, I don’t even know if you have a name. Do you? Mine’s Bellamy, by the way. Bellamy Blake.”

She dug her fingernails into his arm as he helped her stand. “Yes, _Bellamy Blake_ , I have a name!” She set her jaw. “It’s Clarke. Clarke Griffin.”

“I didn’t know stars had last names,” he remarked, looping an arm around her waist to support her, which she accepted, still looking furious, “or any names other than their scientific ones for that matter.”

“Yes, well, it seems you don’t know much of anything.”

He huffed again. “I know that ‘princess’ still suits you better. _Princess_.”

Clarke tried to kick him, but yelled in pain as her leg gave out. Alarmed, Bellamy rushed to catch her with his other arm, so that he held her aloft in his arms.

The star glowered at him. “No. No no no. Absolutely not!”

“I don’t like it either, princess, but are you going to be able to climb out of here on your own?” he asked, grimacing. 

Clarke glanced around, biting her lip. The crater was wide and deep— had it been a lake, they would both have been under water. They stared hard at each other, confrontational without uttering a word. Finally, a frustrated hiss escaped between Clarke’s teeth. “ _Fine_ ,” she said, “but you put me down as soon as we’re out of this pit!”

“Can’t wait, princess.”

 

**_The Palace of Stormhold_ **

“Your carriage is ready, my lord,” said the page. 

Roan nodded, sheathing his sword. “And my brother?”

The page swallowed. “Left at least an hour ago, with twenty of his men.”

“Slippery bastard.” The prince turned to face the page and the men assembled in front of him “You all know what you’re here for,” he said, “and I know each man will help me as best as he is able. Remember, you’re choosing the side of the rightful king of Stormhold.”

“And we’re siding against the snake!” cried one of the soldiers, met with a rousing cry.

Roan smirked to himself as he led his men outside to the horses. He knew he was far more beloved than his brother, “the snake,” and he wasn’t surprised. Roan himself was far from perfect, but his brother was an entirely different beast.

“The necklace appeared to be falling east!” he shouted from his horse. “Nyko, are you ready to guide?”

His navigator saluted. “As soon as you’re ready sir.”

Prince Roan turned to face the palace gates. The cold midnight breeze ruffled his cheek and he swore he felt the brush of destiny with it. “For the throne of Stormhold, and all it represents,” he cried, his voice ringing across the courtyard, “ride on!”

 

**_A Forest in Stormhold_ **

Bellamy flexed his neck.

“Oh stop,” muttered Clarke, “don’t be so dramatic!” 

“You’re heavy, Princess!”

“You shouldn’t have tried to carry me then!”

“Tried?” he raised an eyebrow. “I _did_ carry you! Though for the thanks I’m getting I ought to have left you at the bottom of the crater!”

Clarke rolled her eyes at him, spun on her ankle, ignored the sharp stab of pain, and stormed off. The crunching of leaves and twigs behind her signified that apparently Bellamy was following, but she did her best to ignore it. Her leg throbbed with pain, and the rest of her body felt heavy with a dull, constant ache. She was almost grateful for it, because focusing on the pain kept her from panicking about her situation.

“You’re going the wrong way,” he said from behind her.

She rounded on him. “Oh? And what is the _right_ way? Because from my point of view, the only correct direction is up!” she pointed skywards for what felt like the hundredth time that night.

Bellamy scowled at her. “We have to go east.”

She scrutinized him hard enough that he squirmed, which she counted as a victory. “And how do you know? I don’t see a map, or a compass, or—”

“How do you even know what those are? You’re a _star_.”

She shot him a withering glare. She was good at those. “Well I’ve had plenty of time to watch you and learn your little customs and foibles." 

“ _Me_? What on earth were you watching me for?”

“Not you specifically you moron, I meant you— _humans_ in general. And stop avoiding the question! How do you know where we’re going?”

He flushed. “I just do,” he grumbled.

“What? What kind of nonsensical explanation is that? You’re going to lead us on a mad dance through the forest!”

“I can just tell!” he snapped, flushing, “I can’t explain it, alright? I can just feel that this is the right way…” he tailed off, seeing her expression, and huffed. “Well, normally I’d use polaris, you know, the north star,” he sounded more absent, “but I can’t seem to see it.” He squinted at the sky. 

“Oh. _Oh_ that’s funny, really,” she chucked a pebble at his leg, ignoring his shout of protest “you’re a comedic genius Bellamy, truly!”

“What’s the matter now?” he demanded, chafed by the scathing tone of her voice. “All I said—- oh!” His eyes widened in understanding. “That… that was _you_? You’re the north star!”

Clarke tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Well, yes.” She glanced at him. “Though for now,” she griped, “I suppose we had better head east.”

He shook his head, half-bewildered, half-amused. “That’s right, Princess. We better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed it, comments and kudos would mean the world! Come chat on [tumblr](kingedmundactually.tumblr.com)


	3. In Which We Learn the Particular Strangeness of Shrubbery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy went rigid. That certainly did sound like a sign of life, and not his own. He strained his ears, and, sure enough, there was a slight rustling from a thorn bush nearby. He could call for whoever it was to come out, but then he might have to face a conflict for which he was not armed. However, he could hardly keep on going, not when he was being tailed. 
> 
> Snap.
> 
> More twigs-- whoever it was was moving closer. Bellamy inched closer to the bush. He didn’t want to meet who-or-whatever this was, but he’d be damned if it was going to catch him by su--
> 
> “Bloody hell!” he yelped, falling backward as something flew at him and pinned him to the ground. He didn’t have time to be confused before he registered the flashing of a knife above him. He let his instincts take over, kicking up as hard as he could so that the thing attacking him was thrown off. Bellamy scrambled to his feet, marched forward to grab his attacker, with the intention of knocking it unconscious-- and then froze. Because the thing he had grabbed by the lapels was a child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this chapter took so long! I've been madly busy with school stuff, but here it is now! I really hope you enjoy it, this fic is so much fun for me to write.

Alie lowered the red hood, surveying the landscape with keen eyes. There wasn’t much-- a small farm dotted here-and-there-- but the main road wound through it like a brown ribbon, and it seemed to suit her purpose quite well.

 

She twisted at the brass buckle of her belt once, and the air in front of her shimmered as the image of her two sisters formed in front of her. 

 “You need to check the entrails,” she snapped by way of introduction, “my runes are spouting nonsense!”

Ontari tutted. “Very well, but be careful Alie— the magic is taking its toll.” She cackled slightly.

Alie glanced sharply down at her hand. The skin about her wrist had gone saggy and translucent. Her lips pursed.

 

Echo appeared back in sight, clutching a dead hare, blood still dripping, in her arms. She dropped it on the table and began sifting through its innards with a rusted knife. 

“Stay where you are,” she said, drawing up an intestine and squinting at the veins.

“I’m supposed to be looking at a _star_ ,” hissed Alie, “not a goat!” She waved a hand in irritation at the goat butting its head against the fence of the farm in front of her. 

Echo scowled. “I’m well aware, sister,” she spat, “if you’d let me finish-- the star is on the move. There’s a forest between you and her. And sister. She’s not traveling alone. Be ready.”

Alie hummed. “Ready...I certainly shall be.”

 

***

Sterling was a sensible sort of lad. He had to be, working on the farm and all. He was sensible enough that his mother trusted _him_ of all his siblings to take Billy to the market, and that made his chest swell ever-so-slightly with just the faintest hint of pride. Not that he was happy to be selling Billy, exactly. He’d miss him-- he made good company and was really rather sweet-tempered-- that was for sure, but at least it was the market and not the abattoir. Besides, he’d fetch more of a profit than the the potatoes by themselves, they might even be able to buy a new goat. Or a pig, perhaps? But a pig wouldn’t provide any milk for cheese.  
“Bill! Come here, ol’ boy.” The goat trotted up amiably, and Sterling hummed tunelessly as he wrangled the rope around his neck. “D’you reckon we could get us a cow?” he wondered allowed, half-addressing Billy. “Not from your price alone, of course, but maybe with the potatoes as well?” A cow. Now that _would_ be something. There’d be plenty of milk, and he’d heard even cowpat could be useful... 

 

“Hallo, young man.”

He looked around a moment, but no, there was no _other_ young man to whom the fluting female voice could be calling. His voice caught in his throat when he saw her. The lady was very beautiful and very fine. “Hullo miss.”

She walked, no, glided over in a manner that seemed far better suited to one the Royal court than to the path beside the peonies. “That’s a very fine goat you have,” she said, smiling prettily. She was, Sterling had to reiterate, _very_ beautiful.

“Billy’s right proper,” he agreed, beaming.

“What are you selling him for?”

Sterling gaped at her, wondering what use a _lady_ could possibly have for his goat when... “Oh, I don’t think he’d be able to pull that, miss.” He nodded at the small cart behind her.

She cocked her head. “Do you know, I think you’re quite right. That’s a job best done in pairs”

 

She reached out then and pressed a single slender finger to Sterling’s forehead. His first thought was _well, that’s a very soft fingertip_ , and then _I seem to be shrinking to the ground awfully fast_. The lady smiled down at him. “You do make a handsome pair,” she said, as she harnessed him up next to Billy. Sterling bleated in protest as Alie stepped into the cart and cracked a whip.

 

*******

 

Bellamy sighed, exasperated. “Would you just hold still?”

Clarke eyed him wearily. “What are you doing?”

“For the umpteenth time, princess, I’m trying to get this splint on your leg.”

She scowled at him. “That’s not a splint, it’s a stick.”

“What did you think a splint _was_?” 

She folded her arms and looked pointedly away, but allowed him to tie the splint to her leg without resisting. “Thanks,” she mumbled.

Bellamy bit back a laugh at the face she made as she said this, but let it pass with a roll of the eyes. “Don’t thank me, I’m trying to stave off having to carry you anymore.”

 

They trudged along in silence for several hours, Clarke morose and Bellamy irritable, before he heard her buckle behind him. 

She made a small, startled noise of surprise, and he stooped hurriedly to catch her with and arm around her waist for what seemed like the tenth time that day.

“What’s _wrong_?” he asked, gruff, though his grip stayed solid. 

“I’m _tired_ , Bellamy.” She huffed the words flippantly, but Bellamy saw with a pang that her eyes were practically bloodshot, and she was clearly limping despite the splint.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair. They had agreed to stop at the next village for food and rest, so as to make good time, but Clarke clearly wouldn’t make it. 

“Well your dying from exhaustion isn’t going to do either of us any good, is it?”

She glowered at him. “Do you have a point or do you just delight in stating the obvious?”

He ignored her. “Okay, you just...stay here, alright? I’m going to go ahead, get some supplies, and come back, we’ll just break here.”

Clarke nodded tersely, but couldn’t smother a relieved whimper as he lowered her to the ground beneath a tree and let her lie against it.

“Just please don’t move.”

“Do I look like I’m in a position to move anywhere?” she snapped.

“Oh I don’t know, you look in the optimal state to plummet to the depths of hell from where I’m standing!”

At that, Clarke suggested Bellamy go do something rather unspeakable, and, it must be said, anatomically impossible, to himself, and he turned away, studiously _not_ stamping his feet, yelling to “for goodness’ sake stay put!”

 

***

 

Clarke did not stay put. She waited until about twenty minutes after Bellamy strayed from view before hoisting herself to her feet, using the tree for support. She was a star and she was not about to sit there at the beck-and-call of some vexatious human, wounded leg be damned. 

 

“Sister’s birthday present indeed,” she muttered, for little more than rage and spite were keeping her on her feet now, “moron. See how he’d like being a _present_....” She winced as her foot caught on a protruding root. A grudging pang or gratitude arose in her chest when she realised that, had it not been for the splint, her leg would likely have given out _again_. No matter now. She was determined to find help, some unwitting human who could take her in perhaps, just whilst she worked out what to do next. But in order to do that, she’d have to move, so she simply grimaced through the pain, pushed off the tree, and began to stumble painfully but stubbornly onwards. 

 

She didn’t notice the branches of the tree coiling outwards behind her.

 

***

 

Roan toed the corpse with his boot. The priest’s face had turned purplish-blue at the corners of his mouth, a slight trace of foaming spittle hanging out. Blood blossomed from the old man’s nostrils. Black blood.

“Cage,” Roan grunted. The priest’s death was inconvenient, but not unexpected. Roan’s brother usually made quick work of his enemies. Still, Father Titus had been fond of Roan and pledged him the support of the Sanctum in his quest for Stormhold’s throne. 

“Are you sure, sir?” asked a soldier.

Roan nodded once. “He’s been poisoned. Essence of Baneberries-- it’s Cage’s favourite. It turns the blood black.”

 

The prince turned from the corpse. “Have someone see to it that Father Titus is buried properly.” If Cage had been at the Sanctum already, there was no telling how fast he was moving. Roan had thought to start here and spread word of his claim to the throne-- after all, the support of the Sanctum was the support of the Gods-- but apparently no longer. “Be ready to ride out again in an hour,” he said, “we’ll head for the coast.”

An uneasy murmuring broke out amongst his men, for they all knew that venturing to the coast this time of year could only mean one thing. They were going to see the _Spacewalker_. 

 

***

Bellamy wasn’t used to feeling watched. He’d never had to, living with Octavia. She didn’t waste time with stealth and quiet, preferring instead to barge in and demand to know what he was doing. Sometimes, passing groups of girls or boys would watch him in Wall, but that was different, their barely smothered giggles and fluttering eyelashes were _meant_ to be noticed, they wanted him to know they watched him. 

 

This was different. A deep unease rooted itself in his chest as he glanced around the forest. There didn’t appear to be anyone else there, no rustling in the trees or other such signs of life, but he was sure someone was watching him-- he could feel the weight of a piercing gaze on his back. He did not shake off the feeling, that seemed unwise. It would do him good to stay sharp. Almost without realising it, he let his hand slip into his pocket and thumb at the little glass butterfly there.

 _Snap_.

Bellamy went rigid. _That_ certainly did sound like a sign of life, and not his own. He strained his ears, and, sure enough, there was a slight rustling from a thorn bush nearby. He could call for whoever it was to come out, but then he might have to face a conflict for which he was not armed. However, he could hardly keep on going, not when he was being tailed. 

 _Snap_.

More twigs-- whoever it was was moving closer. Bellamy inched closer to the bush. He didn’t want to meet who-or-whatever this was, but he’d be damned if it was going to catch him by su--

“ _Bloody hell_!” he yelped, falling backward as something flew at him and pinned him to the ground. He didn’t have time to be confused before he registered the flashing of a knife above him. He let his instincts take over, kicking up as hard as he could so that the thing attacking him was thrown off. Bellamy scrambled to his feet, marched forward to grab his attacker, with the intention of knocking it unconscious-- and then froze. Because the thing he had grabbed by the lapels was a _child_.

“Oh my Gods,” Bellamy said, too stunned to let go, “you’re a _kid_!”

The boy folded his arms, apparently unperturbed by the fact that a grown man was holding him in midair by the front of his shirt. “I am _not_ ,” he spat, “a _child_.” 

“What? You look like a child.”

The boy--not boy?--huffed. “Put me _down_.”

Bellamy did, but only after taking the knife. Seeing his attacker stood in front of him, he could see that he was not, in fact, a child. He was difficult to describe-- he _looked_ like a man, his face and his stance were those of a man-- but he was smaller. Everything about him was proportionate, but miniature. As though a regular man had been scaled down to the height of an imp.

“Well,” Bellamy frowned, “what are you?” He raked through his mind, trying to remember any of the fairy tales he’d read. “Some sort of dwarf?”

The small man looked offended. “I am _not_! Those ugly little bearded beasts...”

“Alright, alright! I’m sorry, you’re neither a child nor a dwarf.”

The neither-child-nor-dwarf scowled. “I’m a homunculus,” he pronounced, rather pompously, as though he had declared himself a Lord. 

Bellamy blinked. “A what?”

“A _homunculus_. A small man grown from mandrake root.”

“I’m sorry, are you saying you _grew from a plant_?”

The homunculus scowled. “Obviously.”

Bellamy swallowed down his incredulity enough to ask: “Do you have a name?”

“You can call me Murphy.”

“Well, Murphy, why were you trying to kill me?”

Murphy snorted. “You’re awfully dramatic, aren’t you?”

“You flew out of the bushes to tackle me, shrieking and waving a knife,” he deadpanned, “I think I’m justified.” 

“If it’s any consolation...” 

“Bellamy.”

“If it’s any consolation, Bellamy, it was nothing personal. I just needed some human blood.”

“Funnily enough, that offers no comfort whatsoever. What the hell do you need human blood for?”

Murphy stared at him as though he’d just ask what he needed water to drink for. “Bait, of course.”

 

Murphy was only about the size of a four-year-old, but Bellamy felt his skin crawl with the rising awareness that, homunculus or no, he was looking at someone very dangerous indeed. Drawing himself up to his full height and crossing his arms about his chest, he fixed Murphy with as impassive an expression as he could manage. “And what might you be trying to bait?”

Murphy simply grinned a grimy, twisted grin that shattered any lingering notion that his stature made him a child. “I think I’d like to see you find out.”

 

***

Cage handled the baneberry plants with as much delicacy as though they were ornamental flowers from the Eastern lands. They seemed to him to hold their own beauty, those deceptively unassuming little berries. 

 

Anya had been the one to first to teach him of their potency. _Don’t eat those, little idiot_ , she had said to him, hands on hips when he had uncovered a crop of them in the forest as a boy,  _unless you really wish to make your brothers happy._ It had been the right thing to say-- he’d never wanted anything less. Even then, Cage hadn’t been foolish enough to mistake Anya’s intervention for any affection. He had liked her best of all his siblings-- she was the only one who wasn’t a rival for the throne, much to her chagrin-- but for him, that wasn’t saying much. Anya had never played favourites with her brothers, except for Nimuel, of course. Everyone had loved Nimuel. Had Cage’s heart been softer, it might have stuttered when he’d slid a blade across his throat. Still, to Anya’s credit, she’d never treated him differently even after he’d murdered her favourite. She’d understood the rules of the game as well as any of them did.

 

Cage was almost tender with them, careful to slice them off the plant right at the stem, without piercing the fruit, dropping them one-by-one into a leather pouch where they nestled like rubies. He did not miss Anya, precisely (he doubted there was enough love in his heart to miss anyone), but he was, on occasion, curious about what could have been if Anya had not vanished when she did. In her derisive warning that day, she had introduced the pale, spindly ten-year-old Cage-- alive then only because it didn’t even occur to his brothers that he was worth eliminating-- to the exquisite craft of poisoning. A spiked wine, a soaked dagger, a perfumed handkerchief-- such was Cage’s arsenal. Cage knew he was known as “the Snake,” and in a way, he supposed the name made sense. His realm would never be muscles and fists, not like Roan, no-- he dwelt in the shadows, he liked his moves exacted, calculating, exquisite and meticulous. 

 

He stood up once the pouch-- earlier depleted from having poisoned Father Titus-- was full again, drawing it shut and hanging it back around his neck, tucking it into his shirt. _When I am King, sister_ , he thought, a smirk faint across his face, _know that it’ll be thanks to you._

 

***

“I have told you a thousand times and I will tell you again, _let me go!_ ” Clarke demanded through gritted teeth.

Her captor said nothing. Then again, since her captor was a tree, this was not entirely unexpected. 

 

Clarke thrashed around again, wildly hoping that something had changed, but no. She was still bound fast to the trunk of a tree, great wooden tendrils-- risen from its roots and dipped from its branches-- banding around her, from her clavicle down to her knees. Her arms were pressed uncomfortably to her sides, bark was chafing her at every side, and the heavy jewel around her neck dug painfully into her collarbone. Objectively, she knew that yelling at the tree would not help. However, at this point in time, it was the only thing making her feel any better. She had been ensnared by the tree for what felt like hours-- it snaked around her, slowly but inexorably, and with her wounded leg she had been in no position to struggle. It had been impossibly powerful as its branches dragged her across the forest floor and pinned her to the trunk, before winding around her like a rope. At that point, all she had been able to do was to keep her chest puffed out as long as possible so that she might breathe more easily when it was done. 

 

She dropped her head back slightly, exhausted. The sun was still high in the sky from what she could tell through the scattered sunlight falling through the leafy canopy, and she hadn’t slept yet. She wanted to now, more than anything, but that seemed considerably foolish, and Clarke was anything but foolish. She relaxed as much as she could, closed here eyes, and tried to think. _Captured_ was not a state she had ever been familiar with, living in the infinite sky and all, but here on the ground, it was rapidly becoming her norm. For a brief moment, she was almost nostalgic for the comparative freedom of Bellamy’s captivity-- she had at least been able to move then. Though on the other hand, the tree couldn’t talk. The quiet was certainly a welcome cha-- _Bellamy_! Of course! He had to come back some time, and he would find her then.

 

Except he wouldn’t. Because she was not, of course, where he had left her. She had walked in the moon only knows which direction, meandering erratically for nearly two hours before the branches had caught her.

 

Clarke’s eyes snapped open, as a horrible understanding settled upon her. The tree moved so slowly, languidly almost, yet it had been able to grab her and reel her in almost instantly, its branches extended for several meters until it was long enough to do so. The tree had been...it hardly seemed possible but the tree had been _following_ her. And it had waited for her to stray far enough away that Bellamy could not find her.

 

That meant the forest could _think_. And if it could think...Clarke swallowed. _If it can think,_ she realised, _then it already knows where Bellamy is_.

 

***

Bellamy almost cried when he saw the stream. He hadn’t realised how parched he was until the possibility of feeling the crisp sweetness of running water down his throat lay within feet of his grasp.  
“Let’s go drink,” he said. Bellamy hadn’t invited Murphy to come along, but the homunculus had followed him nonetheless, and since he had apparently decided to refrain from attempting to murder Bellamy, there didn’t seem to be much point in trying to get rid of him.

“You go on. I’ll wait here.”  
Murphy looked positively beatific, and that should have been the first sign that something was wrong, but Bellamy couldn’t really think beyond the prospect of a drink. He shrugged and turned, marching towards the stream-- and then stopped with a surprised “ _oh_!” A leaf had fallen from the tree above and brushed his hand, leaving a red welt that burned painfully. “What the hell was th _\-- ouch_!” Another leaf fell, this time on the back of his neck. Then one against his collarbone. And then there was a cascade of leaves, tumbling downwards stinging him all over, punctuating his brown skin with patches of red. The leaves were falling as though someone was shaking the trees. 

 

Murphy cackled as he emerged next to Bellamy, his hands gloved and a scarf wound around his face leaving only his eyes exposed. “I told you,” he said, smirking as he gathered up the leaves as they fell, shoving them into his little satchel, “bait!”  

“The trees? You wanted my blood to bait the _trees_?” Bellamy cried, swatting wildly around trying to get the leaves away from him.  
“Of course,” Murphy said, “this is the Serewood after all. Do you know how much I can make selling Serewood leaves? You wouldn’t believe how many poisons you can put these things in. There’d be more leaves if I’d just spilled human blood, but they can smell it coursing through your veins no problem.”

“How do I get rid of them?” Bellamy asked desperately.

Murphy grinned, and oily, wolfish grin. “Why would I want you to get rid of them?”

Bellamy lunged, tackling Murphy to the ground, pinning him there with an arm across his throat. “Because even while I’m being attacked by a bloody forest I can take you down.”

Murphy considered. “Find the true path.”

“The hell does that mean?”

The homunculus sighed, unbelievably derisive for someone being held down by a man five times their size. “Find the true path. If you stick to the true path, the Serewood can’t hurt you.”

“You mean the leaves won’t touch me.”

“None of the Serewood’s tricks will. And believe me, it has more up its sleeve than a few leaves.”

“There are no paths in this forest!” Bellamy snapped, wincing as the leaves continued to sting him. One grazed his cheek. 

Murphy raised an eyebrow. “Really? Well, you were clearly on the true path before-- the trees left you alone till you headed for the stream.”

“Yes, but I wasn’t following a path! I was just trying to get back to... to my friend.”  He almost laughed as he imagined how Clarke would react to that, but he had more pressing matters to attend to than choosing a suitable moniker for the star just now.

“And how did you know you were going the right way?”

The leaves felt like they were searing through to his bone by now. _Serewood_ he thought,  _now I get it_. “I just knew, okay!”

Murphy went unsettlingly quiet at that. “Just like that?”

Something in his tone set Bellamy on his guard. “I was guessing.”

The homunculus looked suspicious, but that was also what his resting expression looked like. “Well, boy, I’d suppose you’d better guess again.” 

“Don’t call me _boy_ ,” hissed Bellamy as he released Murphy and clambered to his feet, “it’s weird. You still look like a child.”

Murphy’s outrage was gratifying, but Bellamy couldn’t fully appreciate it-- the leaves were still falling, and he was not interested in seeing what else the Serewood had to offer. 

 

“You,” he said, “don’t follow me. I’ve no desire to see what else you’ll use me as bait for.”

Murphy shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’ve got some wares to sell anyway.” He hefted the satchel and started wading through the stream (that Bellamy had never gotten to drink from by the way) when he paused and turned around again. “May we meet again, Bellamy.”

He couldn’t tell if it was a joke or a prophecy, and Murphy was out of sight before he had time to ask. Bellamy turned his attention to avoiding the leaves, moving wildly around the area. Finding the “true path” could take hours, he had no idea where to go. 

 

Except that he did, because something--not his mind-- led his feet this way and that, until suddenly he was standing in a spot that looked exactly like every other part of the forest, except that the leaves had stopped falling. He blinks for a moment, stunned, a hiss escaping through his teeth as he felt the angry welts all over his forearms, hands, and neck. Thankfully, only one had made it on his face. He had no idea _how_ he’d found the true path, only that this must be it, and that to get back to Clarke, he definitely had to go _that_ way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those of you who have read the book Stardust probably recognise some of the scenes, but I'm also making up a few of my own as I go along here. Look forward to some more familiar faces showing up next chapter! Kudos/Comments are as great as fallen stars...


	4. In Which There Are a Series of Encounters, Some Informative, Some Dangerous, and All Strange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So...they want to eat Clarke’s heart?” Bellamy breathed, something crawling under his skin.   
> “You must not let them, Bellamy Blake. You must not let them reign this world for centuries. You must not let them have the star.”  
> “What do I do?” he demanded, “I need to know where she is!”  
> “There is a stagecoach headed this way,” Lexa said, her voice starting to fade to the whispering of the leaves, “it’ll be here in minutes. It is vital that you get on it, for it will take you to her.”  
> Bellamy nodded. “Alright...and thank you.”  
> “Do not fail,” the tree warned, and sounded almost sad, “she’s special.” And then she was quiet, and Bellamy knew the tree would not speak again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so so so sorry I've taken so long to update! My only real excuse is that I'm at a madly busy time school-wise and I have to put school first, sad as that is for my fanfic-writing heart. But I'm on spring break this week, plus I get to see Neil Gaiman at a lecture on Thursday, so that was good motivation to update! Thank you to everyone who sticks around to read and review despite my appalling updating schedule, I love you all.

Clarke tended not to spend too much time imagining how she’d die, but whenever the thought did cross her mind, it seldom involved trees. There was, after all, a rather marked _absence_ of trees in the Heavens, and even if one had to imagine death by tree, Clarke would have assumed it would usually involve being crushed by a falling tree or some such similar fate. She had never thought to worry about trees even as she had landed on the damnable ground, but now, with the firm, unshakeable branches wrapping themselves around her waist, she saw she had been foolish _not_ to fear them. It was becoming harder and harder to breathe, and the sensation was frightening. There were things to fear in the vastness of the sky, but tight enclosures and lack of air were not among them.

“ _Please_ ,” her voice came rasping, “let go.” 

The tree was unforgiving, only coiling a little more tightly, like a jailor suppressing and unruly prisoner.

 _This is it_ , she realised, a coldness settling in the pit of her stomach, _this is how I die_. _Half strangled and tethered to the ground_. It was a sorry fate for a star, and she tipped her head back, hoping for a last glimpse at her home. The leafy canopy obscured the canopy, only allowing fractured triangles of light to dapple to forest floor. She squeezed her eyes shut--if she squeezed tightly enough, sparks of colour danced against the blackness...they were like little stars of their own...The breath felt like it had all but vanished from her lungs. The sparks danced more. A heaviness started to sink down her body, starting at her head and oozing with the viscosity of clotting blood down her body, a heady warmth in its wake. Slowly, slowly, slowly...

 

Her eyes fluttered open when she felt the nudging. For a moment, her stomach plummeted, wondering if this wasn’t some other nearby plant hoping to share its tree friend’s bounty, but when she looked down to see what was poking at her hand, she gasped.

“Oh,” she whispered, “oh, hello.”

The unicorn nuzzled at her carefully with his snout, cautious so as not to stab her with the horn atop its head. 

We must here pause a moment to ensure that you are properly informed on the subject of unicorns. You are imagining, I’m sure, a rather docile sort of horse from a small girl’s storybook, one that happens to have a pearly cone on it’s head and so on. As charming as this image is, it is wrong. The unicorn Clarke stood facing at that moment was shaped like a horse, it was true, but not a small one. No, this one had the body of some sort of wild mustang, muscles that rippled dangerously under its skin, mane and hair silver, like metal and moonlight. It’s horn was sharp, weapon-like, and it kept banging at the wood embracing Clarke, until a _hissing_ sort of sound escaped the Serewood, and the branches unwound, sliding backward with the quickness of disgruntled snakes. Clarke gasped for air as she was freed, stumbling forward against the unicorn. 

“Thank you,” she said, petting the creature’s neck and burying her face in its mane when the tears came, “ _thank you._ You saved me.”

The unicorn whinnied softly, before nudging the star so she stood back whilst the beast sank to its knees and tipped its head, signaling that she should mount. 

Clarke eyed it wearily. “Are you sure.”

Another whinny, more impatient this time.

“Very well.” She hoisted herself onto its back, clinging to its neck and settling herself there whilst the unicorn set off at a trot on its own path down the forest.

***

Bellamy swore when he reached the thicket he had left Clarke at to find her no longer there. He scrubbed a hand over his face, huffed so hard his lips fluttered, and swore again.

“ _Stay here_ , I said. I distinctly remember telling her to _stay put_. Does she listen? Of course she bloody well doesn’t!” Had it not been for the fact that he had recently discovered the rathe unpleasant capacities of the arbour surrounding him, he’d have kicked a tree trunk to better expend his frustration. “Now what?” he called to no one in particular. The forest had nothing to say back to him. He sighed. He could, of course, just turn back now. He didn’t know how, but his instincts were apparently leading him on the _true path_ , whatever that meant, so they could surely lead him home. He let himself picture it for a moment, eating a hot meal and collapsing into a soft bed. Facing Octavia and seeing the disappointment, the disgust reflected in her eyes. Bellamy shook himself. He couldn’t go back, not so soon. But the shadows were disappearing into the dark blue of evening, and at that point, there wasn’t much he _could_ do. Not besides sleep anyway. He slid down against a tree, one he was sure was on the true path. “You’d better not do anything strange,” he muttered at its roots before shuffling a little and closing his eyes to sleep.

 

So of course, the tree spoke. He wasn’t even sure _anything_ spoke at first, dismissed the whispering repetition of  _Bellamy...Bellamy...Bellamy_...as a product of his subconsciousness. But the sound grew more insistent, rousing him from his sleep, and he rubbed at his eyes, looking round groggily.

“Hello?”

“ _Bellamy_.”

He sat bolt upright, because no, the sound was real, and it seemed to be coming from a tree. Specifically, the tree that he was leaning against. Had he been at home, he would have dismissed this as some delusion brought on by exhaustion, but he wasn’t at home. He was in Faerie, and the trees had already tried to _kill_ him, so naturally, they’d want to chat too.

“ _Bellamy_.”

“Um. Hello...tree.”

The tree tutted. “ _My name is Lexa_.”

He blinked. “You have a _name_?”

The tree was silent for a moment, and Bellamy got the feeling that it was an irritated silence more than anything else.

“ _You do not want to kill her_.”

“I’m going to need some specificity,” Bellamy said, trying to shake the overall strangeness that accompanied conversing with a tree. 

“ _The star. You do not want to kill her_.”

“You make an awful lot of assumptions,” he muttered, “I’d defy anyone _not_ to want to kill her just a little.”

One of Lexa’s branches flung upwards so he had to stagger back to avoid being hit. “ _I cannot tell if you are joking_.”

“I’m joking!” Mostly.

“ _That is good, Bellamy Blake. If you were not joking, I would not help you. I would, most probably, kill you._ ”

“A few of your friends,” he waved his hand at the rest of the forest, “have already tried.”

“ _Yes_ ,” she sounded about as amused as he imagined a tree with no sense of humour could sound, “ _they tend to do that_.”

This seemed like the kind of line of conversation one would do better to avoid, so he ventured onwards. “You mentioned helping me?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Lexa said. “ _Helping you help the star_.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Fine, I’ll bite. Why do I need to help Clarke?”

“ _There was another that fell._ ”

“Another star?”

“ _Yes, of course? What else could I be talking about_?”

“You’re a regular barrel of sunshine, you know that?”

Lexa made a grumbling sound. “ _The sun is not shining right now. Nor am I a barrel. I do not understand your wittering._ ”

He sighed. “Another star fell?”

“ _Yes. Hold my branch and I will show you_.”

Warily, he grasped the branch closest to him. The air in front of him shimmered, and then, like the magic mirror from the fairytales he used to tell O, an image appeared. It was a boy, dressed in a silver robe, unconscious on the forest floor, stirring slightly.

“ _His name was Wells_ ,” Lexa said, “ _and he fell centuries ago_.”

The image shifted again, and a woman leaned over him. She was very beautiful, dressed in red, but there was a flatness to her smile that made Bellamy uneasy. 

“ _They found him_ ,” Lexa said, “ _the witches_.”

Two more women joined the first in the image, and helped Wells to his feet as he woke.

“ _They were kind to him, they cared for him_.”

The images started to flicker like a series of portraits, showing the women cleaning Wells’s wounds, sharing their meals with him, talking and laughing...

“ _They showered him with kindness and affection. And then, when they made him trust them, made him love them..._ ”

A final image appeared. The star, Wells, was lying on a table, smiling easily as the woman in red brushed a hand through his hair, gentle. One of the other women approached, and Bellamy inhaled sharply when he saw she held a glinting knife the size of a meat cleaver. She raised it in her hand.

“... _they cut his heart out and ate it_.”

There was a strangled scream, and the image shattered. Bellamy staggered backwards, falling against the tree trunk.

“ _They ate it and bought themselves youth and beauty, immortality. But now, they have run out._ ”

“So...they want _to eat Clarke’s heart_?” Bellamy breathed, something crawling under his skin. 

“ _You must not let them, Bellamy Blake_. _You must not let them reign this world for centuries. You must not let them have the star_.”

“What do I do?” he demanded, “I need to know where she is!”

“ _There is a stagecoach headed this way_ ,” Lexa said, her voice starting to fade to the whispering of the leaves, “ _it’ll be here in minutes. It is vital that you get on it, for it will take you to her_.”

Bellamy nodded. “Alright...and thank you.”

“ _Do not fail_ ,” the tree warned, and sounded almost sad, “ _she’s special_.” And then she was quiet, and Bellamy knew the tree would not speak again.

***

Diana Sydney clucked in irritation as she sifted through the tray of glass ornaments. “No, no, no. Too shoddy...damn it all to hell!” She marched over to the corner of her caravan and tugged at purple cloth. It fell away, revealing a cage underneath. A falcon sat inside, amber eyes and hooked beak both glinting in the candle light. A silver chain was looped around one leg. “Out with you,” spat Diana, swatting at the bird, pinching its wing when it tried to peck her hand. The falcon hopped out of the cage, and Diana snapped her fingers at it. In a burst, a woman fell to the floor where the falcon had been. She glowered up at Diana, and her eyes had the same gleam they’d had when she was a hunting bird. 

“You blasted creature,” Diana said, “good for nothing.”

“Just what good do you expect a caged falcon to do?” the woman said, her voice low and predatory.

Diana spat to the side. “The ornaments,” she said, “polish them. I want them so shiny I can see my face in them!”

“Are you sure? You’d catch your death of fright.”

Diana tugged harshly at the silver chain tied around the woman’s wrist. “Clean them,” she said, “if I don’t make enough at the next market, your dinner’s the first thing to go.”

The woman arched an eyebrow, and her ear--which was that of a cat--flicked. “Oh, because I receive such sumptuous feasts already?”

Diana raised her hand as if to slap her, but the woman didn’t flinch, merely squared her jaw as though to say _go on, then_. “I took your freedom girl, and I stole your name. Don’t think that means there’s nothing else I can snatch.” She stamped out of the caravan, the wooden door swinging behind her. 

***

The goats reached a halt that was more juddering than she’d have liked , though there was little to be done about that now. Once she had the star, she’d see about upgrading to something sturdier--hounds, perhaps, or buffalo. Alie lowered herself from the cart and eyed the area in front of her critically. It was in plain view by the roadside, and therefore perfect, but some adjustments would need to be made. She waved her hands, and green tendril of magic lashed at the grass like whips, writhing and twisting until where there had just been empty land, there now stood a cosy looking wooden inn, two floors high, with a small barroom visible in the nearest window. She hissed as she felt the skin around her breasts and clavicle sag suddenly, the magic draining their youth. Still, this plan would ensure she had enough youth for centuries, so she could afford a little strain now. With that happy though, Alie flicked her wrists at the bleating goats behind her. For a moment, they were encircled with more green ribbons of magic. When those melted away, two people stood there instead.

“ _Maaaaa_ ,” the old man bleated.

“Excellent,” Alie smiled, “Billy, you shall be my husband, the innkeeper. Come now.” She held out her hand to him. Billy stared at it, mystified, before bending his head to lick it. Alie yanked her hand back with a gasp of disgust. “And you,” she turned to where Stirling now stood, “you shall be our daughter.”

He blinked at her. “Daughter?”

Alie’s lips curved upwards.

Sterling glanced down sharply, only to see a dress, and the rounded swell of--

“ _Breasts_?” he prodded one experimentally, then ran a hand through his hair, which was long, and soft, and the colour of cornsilk. “Blimey,” he muttered.

“Get inside,” Alie hissed, “the pair of you. We’re expecting a guest.”

***

For the first few minutes, the rain was fun. Exciting, even. Clarke had never before experienced rainfall on the ground, though she had walked through a cloud a few times. The silvery droplets delighted her at first, and she laughed whenever one splashed her skin or caught in her hair. The rain had a scent, which she had not expected, a scent which her tresses held onto. The unicorn seemed to enjoy it too, as it would periodically tip its head up towards the sky, shake its main a little. It had been pleasant. Hours ago. Now, however, Clarke felt the drops like needles breaking through her skin, leaving her face and fingers numb and icy, the chill seeping through her bones, and the wetness making the silky material of her dress uncomfortable. Her hair hung about her like a muddied washcloth, and she was sure that if she had not yet experienced true misery on the ground, then this would swiftly take care of that.

“It’s no-t-t-t s-s-s-s-so bad,” she told the unicorn through chattering teeth, stroking at its neck, the fur matted and splattered with puddle water. “We j-j-j-ust n-n-need to f-f-f-find sh-shelther.”

The unicorn whinnied balefully. She pulled herself as upright as she could, determined not to crumple. It was just a little water. She was a _star_ , she had lit the heavens for centuries...a trickle of water slipped down the back of her neck and she shivered again. The unicorn whinnied suddenly, and Clarke looked up to where it was nodding its head. A small inn stood a little way of head. Clarke could see the firelight glowing invitingly from its windows, and at that moment, she wanted nothing more than to be inside. “Come on,” she whispered to the unicorn, “nearly there.” The unicorn pushed forward with a valiant final canter even as the lashes of rain turned into buckets, and Clarke managed not to fall to the floor as she dismounted. She knocked on the door, and it swung open in seconds.

“Oh, my _dear_!” a dark-haired woman in a nightgown appeared, “what in the world are you doing alone at this time of night? Come, let’s get you inside away from all this blasted rain.” She ushered Clarke in hurriedly, fussing and exclaiming over how _tired she must be, the poor lamb_ , and _oh her lovely dress was soaked through_. “I’ll have my husband put your friend in the stables,” she said, smiling and waving over a portly bearded man who did not speak but started shepherding the unicorn in another direction. 

“Thank you,” Clarke murmured when the innkeeper’s wife had her upstairs in front of a fire, the feeling slowly returning to her fingers and nose. “But I haven’t any money. I’m afraid I can’t pay you.”

“Nonsense,” said the lady, “I’d never let such a lovely young thing perish out there! Now you just wait here, I’ll run you a nice hot bath. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

Clarke blinked. “I wouldn’t--you see I don’t--I’ve never actually had one.”

The innkeeper’s wife stopped. “Never had--not even--well I never! We’ll fix that soon enough.”

“Thank you,” Clarke smiled, “I’m sure it’ll be wonderful.”

“My dear,” Alie smiled, “it’s to die for.”

***

Bellamy was just beginning to lose all hope of ever leaving behind the scrubby bush he was crouched behind when he heard the approaching clop-clopping of horses. Sure enough, he could see the glimmering of a lantern, and he knew the stage coach was getting closer. He waited until it was just in front of him before leaping out with his hands held up. The horse whinnied in panic, rearing up, and the driver’s swearing echoed through the forest.

“What the _hell_?” spat a deep voice, and before Bellamy could move, there was a sword pressed to his throat. “Explain yourself,” said the driver, “do you really mean to rob _me_?”

“I’m not a bandit,” Bellamy said, voice tight with the effort of not moving so as to avoid having his jugular slit, “I just want a ride.”

The driver lowered his hood with one hand. He was a huge, hulking man with hair pulled back, and there was a leonine look to his eyes. “A _ride_? Stop wasting my time, boy, I have places to be.”

“As do I,” Bellamy pressed, “that’s why I need the ride.”

The man glowered at him. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

“Should I?”

He lowered the sword, sighing. “I am Roan, Prince of Stormhold. Soon to become King.”

Bellamy raised an eyebrow. “If I bow, will you let me on? Your highness?”

The Prince smirked a little. “You think yourself a smart one, I’ll wager.”

“If I agree, will you let me on?”

Roan appeared to consider a moment, before shrugging. “Very well then. If you irritate me too much, I’ll skin you.”

“You’ve appalling manners for a Prince.”

They hoisted themselves onto the cart. “I didn’t get your name, boy.”

“I didn’t give it. But it’s Bellamy. Bellamy Blake.”

Roan nodded once, then clicked his teeth to start the horses on their way.

***

“Come dear,” Alie said, guiding the star downstairs to where a metal tub stood, water warming in front of the main fireplace. “In you get now, come on.”

The star complied, undressing quickly, a shiver running through her. Alie pursed her lips a little--the star was shivering and covered in goosebumps. If she stayed that miserable, her heart would be cold and little and miserable. Alie wanted the heart golden and shining, full of all the more youth and beauty to leach away. It appeared that was a goal she could achieve, if the sigh of pleasure the star gave as she slipped into the tub was any indication. She tipped her head back, allowing the blonde curls to soak in the warm water. Her eyes drooped shut, and the only movement she made was to play with the stone hanging around her neck. 

“I’ll leave you to relax a little,” Alie murmured as she walked away. Her set of obsidian cleavers were upstairs, she could sharpen one as she waited.

 

Clarke had never given an awful lot of thought to temperature, living in the heavens and all, but at that moment she felt she knew what true warmth felt like. The pain in her leg had subsided, as if by magic, and she felt as though she was getting years back on her life, the warm water revitalizing her as it seeped into her skin. _I could stay here forever_ , she thought. It was, of course, at that moment, that the door to the inn flung upon, bringing in a gust of frigid air and a behemoth of a man in a cloak. With a hiss of surprise, she slunk as low as she could in the steel tub, letting the suds obscure her to her chin. The man appeared to notice her then.

“At last,” he said, “I’ve been knocking outside for two minutes, your service is abysmal.”

Clarke scowled. “I’m not--”

“I’ll need your best room and a hot meal. And I’ve a companion in the stables--”

“ _Excuse me_ , sir,” the innkeeper’s wife frowned as she hurried down the stairs. I’ll thank you not to disturb my guests!”

The man’s eyes flicked between the two women before understanding dawned. “I do apologize,” he nodded at Clarke. “Madam, something hot to drink, if you please.”

The innkeeper’s wife smiled tightly. “I’ll send something to your friend too.” She turned on her heel and disappeared into the kitchen.

“My apologies,” the man said.

“It’s fine,” Clarke muttered, though she was irritated that the tranquil isolation of her bath had been shattered.

“This blasted storm had better clear away soon,” he muttered, “the horses can’t go very far. I’ve got the boy in the stables--told him to try calm them.”

“You left someone in the stables? In this weather?”

“Never mind that now,” the innkeeper’s wife had reappeared, a tray with a goblet on it in one hand, and a white bathrobe draped over the other. She handed the goblet to the man and tutted at him to turn around so she could set the tray down and help Clarke out of the tub and into the robe. “I’ve sent my daughter to give his friend a drink. You come with me now dear, I think you could use a massage.”

“A massage? Whatever is that?”

“Oh you’ll enjoy it,” she said, “they say I’ve a healer’s hands, you know.”

The man turned around as he heard them heading up the stairs. “You’ll let me know when you have a room available?”

Clarke turned as the innkeeper’s wife answered him, and perhaps someone would have answered him, but he was suddenly staring hard at her with a dangerous expression.

“That stone,” he demanded, “around your neck--where did you get it?”

 

Bellamy slumped against the wooden stall door, shivering. Roan had wandered into the inn to find food and shelter, leaving him to calm the horses. The stables were mostly empty, just one white horse at the far end, so it hadn’t taken him too long, but he was cold and exhausted. He was just thinking about ignoring Roan’s orders to stay put when a barmaid walked in with a tray. Wordlessly, she handed him a cup.

“Thank you,” he said. She smiled and nodded, before turning and leaving. He shrugged and raised the cup to his mouth, but before he could drink, a desperate whinnying sound interrupted him. He glanced up to see the white horse rearing in it’s stall. “What’s the matter?” he murmured, walking towards it. With a powerful kick, the horse broke the stall door down and charged him. Bellamy dropped the cup and staggered backwards in alarm, a strangled gasp escaping his throat as he realised that the horse was, in fact, a _unicorn_. “What the _hell_?” he yelled, but the unicorn skidded to a halt just short of him, still neighing urgently and tossing its head to wear Bellamy had dropped the cup. He glanced over and saw, to his horror, that the spilt liquid was hissing and steaming, burning the hay with an acrid smell. Poison. “If they tried that on me,” he said, mostly to himself, but also a little to the unicorn, “then there’s probably after Roan.” And with that, he burst out of the stables and flew into the main room of the inn. If Roan knew he was in danger of assassination, he showed no sign of it, because he was pointing accusingly at someone on the stairs. 

“Give me the stone,” he boomed, “you’ll hand it over at once if you value your life.”

“You’ll leave her alone,” hissed someone else who Bellamy assumed was the innkeeper’s wife, “if _you_ value _your_ life. Come on now dear.”

“Clarke!” he couldn’t stop himself from calling out when he saw her, and her gaze snapped to him.

Her eyes widened. “Bellamy? How did you find me?”

“It’s a long story--” he froze. The innkeeper’s wife had her arm around Clarke’s shoulders. _They found him._ _The witches_. _They were kind to him, they cared for him_. 

“Bellamy?” Clarke frowned. 

 _The poisoned cup_.

“Clarke,” he started for her, “we should go.”

She opened her mouth as though to protest, but looked hard at him and thought the better of it. She moved to go, but the innkeeper’s wife’s hand tightened on her arm. 

“You can’t go yet, my dear,” her smile was tight, “you haven’t had your massage.”

“That’s okay,” Clarke squirmed slightly, “I’ll go without.”

“She’s not going anywhere till I get that stone,” Roan thundered. And then he lunged for her. It was as if he’d lit a fuse that had been lying dormant in the air. As he drew his sword, Clarke kicked at the innkeeper’s wife--the witch--and sprinted forward, stumbling against Bellamy, who steadied her with his arms. With a yell of outrage, the witch snapped her fingers and Roan’s sword flew from his grasp.

“You’re getting in my way, Princeling,” she hissed, and the sword spun in the air, flew towards Roan, and pierced him through the heart. His face was surprised as he looked down at it. When he looked back up, he choked, and a trickle of blood dribbled from his mouth. With a strangling sound, the penultimate Prince of Stormhold keeled over and died.

Bellamy and Clarke stood frozen in horror for a long moment, able only to watch as the dead man’s blood pooled on the floor and started to spread towards their feet.

“Now,” the witch’s voice broke them from their reverie, “your turn.”

Clarke tugged on Bellamy’s arm, running for the door as fast as she could and dragging him behind her, but the door slammed shut. 

“I’ve been tracking you down long enough,” the witch snarled, “you’re a fool if you think I’m letting you go now.”

“Don’t blame me,” Clarke snapped, “you’re the one that decided you needed to wine and dine me before just...doing whatever it is you want to do.”

“Remind me to fill you in on what that is later,” Bellamy muttered in her ear.

The witch grew impatient, and with a flick of her arm, plucked a razor-sharp knife from her pocket and flung it towards them. It would probably have sent Bellamy to an untimely grave, had it not been for the sudden crash of a unicorn bursting through the side of the inn and knocking them both backwards, catching the knife in its own side.

“No,” Clarke looked distraught, “ _no_.” She glared at the witch. “They say to kill a unicorn is to damn one’s own _soul_.”

“Lucky for me,” the witch growled, “my soul has long been forgotten.” And with the next motion of her arms, they were encircled in a spitting ring of acid green flame.

For a moment, Bellamy was sure that this was it, the flames would claim him where the knife had failed--he could feel their sickly heat enroaching on him. But as suddenly as the flames had appeared, and idea struck him. The witch was moving towards them, so he hurried to root around in his pocket, fumbling before pulling out what he was looking for.

“Quick,” he hissed to Clarke, grabbing her by the wrist. 

“What?”

“Hold me tight and think of home.”

She blinked at him for a moment, but the witch had begun chanting a spell, and Clarke snapped to action. Bellamy waited only to feel her arms slip around his waist and the warmth of her press into his chest before closing his eyes, thinking of Wall, and shoving the Babylon Candle wrapped in his fist into the angry flames.

***

For a few second, he was aware of nothing except the excruciating burning in his hand, but then there was a swoosh of air, and the witch’s outraged scream echoed as the Candle did its work. Bellamy opened his eyes, and instantly, flurries of rain started to trickle around. Clarke unwound herself from him, and for a second, there was only a breathless relief at their escape. Then he looked around.

“What-- _where the hell are we_?” he demanded.

Clarke was staring at their landscape, equally aghast. They were standing, impossibly yet undeniably, on a _cloud_. A huge grey cloud, and in the midst of a lightning storm. She groaned.

“Of course,” she yelled to be heard over the roars of thunder, “of _course_. Well done, genius--you thought of your home, and I thought of my home, and now we’re halfway between the two!”

“ _Your_ home? Why would you think of _your_ home, Princess?”

“You didn’t say otherwise, what was I supposed to do?”

“Are you serious?” he scowled at her. The rain had matted both their hair to their foreheads. “I was preoccupied trying to save your life from a rampaging witch, and you have the gall to be angry you didn’t get _more specific instructions_?”

“I wouldn’t have needed saving if you hadn’t _kidnapped me_!”

“I did not _kidnap you_! And are you saying you’d have rather wasted away in that ditch?”

“Better that than being electrocuted to death up here with just you for company!”

“You’re infuriating!” he yelled.

“Well, you’re insufferable!”

“You’re an uppity Miss so-and-so with all the manners of a drunken cow!”

“And you’re a boorish oaf who wouldn’t know pleasantry if it fell on him like a boulder.”

Bellamy could have come up with a scathing retort to that, if he’d had the chance. Unfortunately he didn’t, because that was the moment that the net fell on them from somewhere above, and even the cloud fell away from beneath them as someone began to reel them in upwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! Comments are as wonderful as unicorns and shooting stars x


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